Burned (35 page)

He takes out his mobile and rings Iver Gundersen. Gundersen answers immediately.

‘Hi, Iver, it’s me,’ he says.

‘Hi.’

Gundersen doesn’t know yet, Henning thinks.

‘Are you at work?’

‘Yes.

‘Are you in front of the computer?’

‘Yep.’

‘Do you fancy a scoop?’

Silence.

‘A scoop?’

‘Yep. A scoop. Yes or no. If not, I’ll call someone else.’

Henning can hear Iver splutter.

‘No, I, or I mean, yes. Yes, of course I want a scoop. Where the hell are you, eh, what’s happening?’

Henning takes a deep breath of good solid north wind through his nostrils. Lovely.

‘These are my terms. You can ask questions, but not why I want it done in this way. Is that clear?’

‘Henning, I –’

‘Is that clear?’

‘Christ, Henning, yes, it’s clear.’

Henning grins. He is allowed to have a bit of fun at Gundersen’s expense.

‘Okay, get ready,’ he says.

And he starts with the headline.

Henning wanders up and down while he talks to Gundersen, sneaks a peek at Ingvild and Yngve while Brogeland and his team carry out preliminarily interviews outside the tent. Ingvild and Yngve Foldvik are each wrapped in a blanket. They don’t make eye contact with the police officers who are talking to them.

They don’t look at anyone.

By the time Brogeland beckons him over, it is early afternoon. Traffic has intensified on the Common, newspaper and TV vans have arrived, a crowd of onlookers have gathered, wondering what kind of evil has happened in the tent this time. He doesn’t blame them. He would probably be curious, too. And they will be even more shocked when they read
123news
later today, if Gundersen has the brains to make sense of the facts and the chronology.

‘Okay, let’s walk,’ Brogeland says. Henning follows him away from the others.

‘What do you think about all this?’ Brogeland asks him.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Is it the end of civilisation as we know it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Henning says.

‘Me neither. Jesus Christ,’ Brogeland exclaims, shaking his head. ‘Can you imagine what kind of future the two of them will have?’

‘No.’

‘Nor can I.’

‘How is Anette doing?’

‘She’ll make a quick recovery.’

‘Are you taking her to the hospital?’

‘No need.’

They walk on. Above them, the clouds move swiftly. The temperature is dropping. His clothes no longer stick to his body.

‘Have you found out what killed Stefan yet?’ he asks. They are heading back to the tent now. Brogeland shakes his head.

‘It’s too early to say, but everything suggests an overdose of pills and alcohol.’

‘So his death is no longer suspicious?’

‘No, doesn’t look like it.’

‘Does that mean you haven’t requested the full range of tests?’

‘It’s not my decision, but, yes, I imagine he’ll go to the back of the queue.’

‘Mm.’

Henning looks around. A cameraman from TV2 hoists his camera on to his shoulder. A reporter checks his notes before rehearsing his presentation, off-camera.

‘It’s a bit odd that Stefan was naked, don’t you think?’ Henning remarks, when the reporter has finished. Brogeland turns to him.

‘Hm?’

‘Why do you think Stefan was naked?’

‘Not entirely sure. He had a thing about symbolism. Perhaps it was his way of saying that the cycle was complete.’

‘Born naked, die naked, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

A reasonable interpretation, Henning thinks.

‘But how did Stefan know that Henriette would be in the tent that evening? Was there any mobile phone activity between them?’

‘Not that I remember. Don’t think so.’

‘So how did he know?’

Brogeland ponders this for a while.

‘Perhaps they had a verbal agreement?’

‘About what? Stefan wasn’t involved with Henriette’s film.’

‘No, I know. No idea. Anyway, somehow he knew. We’ll never get the answer to that now.’

Henning nods, slowly. The question irks him. He doesn’t like puzzles with missing pieces. He always ends up staring at the gaping hole.

‘Quite a comeback for you,’ Brogeland says, as they stroll on.

‘What do you mean?’

‘This case. But it’s just up your street, isn’t it? You like going it alone?’

Henning looks at Brogeland and wonders what has prompted this shift in tone.

‘What are you saying?’

‘Gjerstad told me about the Nigerian women,’ Brogeland confronts Henning. His smile has gone. ‘Gjerstad told me about the story you wrote, your interview with the killer.’

Henning nods and smiles. Oh, Gjerstad.

‘Did Gjerstad tell you the whole story?’

He waits for Brogeland’s reaction, but it never comes.

‘Did he tell you that I did the interview and gave the guy the publicity he wanted on one condition?’

Henning pauses for effect.

‘What condition was that?’

‘That he would stop killing Nigerian women, or indeed killing anyone at all. It’s a pipedream to believe the police can prevent prostitution in Oslo. It’s the equivalent of telling kids to stop eating sweets. There is a reason why it’s called the world’s oldest profession. Did Gjerstad say anything about how many more women the man murdered?’

Brogeland doesn’t reply.

‘No, exactly. And I couldn’t have handed him over to the police, either, because I never met him. We spoke on the telephone – twice – and both times, he called me. I never took the trouble to find out where he was calling from, because I knew it would be a waste of time. Besides, he was nicked a couple of months later. For something else.’

Henning visualises Arild Gjerstad, remembers some of the rows they have had, the blatant antipathy and contempt in his eyes. I may be prejudiced, he thinks, but I’m a tyro compared to Gjerstad.

‘Okay, I –’

‘Forget it.’

‘But I –’

‘Gjerstad doesn’t like journalists, Bjarne, and I’m his least favourite person. That’s just how it is.’

‘No, but I –’

‘Leave it. It’s not important.’

Brogeland looks at him. Then he nods, quietly.

Chapter 67

When Henning arrives at the office an hour later, he senses immediately that the mood has changed. Yes, it’s a Friday, and Fridays have their own momentum, but it’s like Christmas has come early. He can tell from people’s smiles, hear it in their carefree laughter, see it in the relaxed way a woman moves, as he passes her on the stairs.

He walks down the narrow corridor and into the kitchenette, where the coffee machine stands strangely abandoned. It is just after 3 p.m. There are still plenty of people around. Kåre Hjeltland is hovering behind a journalist at the news desk, as usual.

‘Henning!’ he shouts, when their eyes meet. He gives the journalist some instructions and races to the kitchenette. Henning takes a step back in anticipation of Kåre’s impact, so as not to be knocked over. Heidi crosses behind Kåre. She sees them, but she doesn’t join them.

‘Have you seen Iver’s story?’ Kåre roars.

‘Eh, no?’

‘He has solved the Hagerup case. The stoning, all of it. I believe there was a showdown in the tent at Ekeberg Common earlier today. Bloody hell. Our hits are GOING THROUGH THE ROOF! Fuck, FUCK!’

Kåre laughs out loud and slaps Henning on the shoulder, hard.

‘Are you coming with us after work? We’ve got to celebrate this.’

Henning hesitates.

‘It’s Friday, for God’s sake.’

‘Is Iver coming?’

Not that it would make a difference either way, but he prefers to know.

‘No. He’s on
17.30
on Radio 4 later today. Got to stay sober. And he has a TV talk show afterwards, I don’t remember which one, ha-ha.’

At that moment, Gundersen comes out from the lavatory. He wipes his wet hands on his worn, slightly mucky jeans, but stops mid-movement when he sees Henning. They look at each other. Kåre shouts something Henning fails to hear. He looks at Gundersen, who nods cautiously. There is gratitude in his eyes combined with a strange mix of respect and wonder.

‘Some other time,’ Henning says to Kåre. ‘I’m meeting someone.’

‘Oh, no,’ Kåre exclaims. ‘What a shame.’

Gundersen starts walking in their direction, but passes them without saying anything. His eyes flicker as he scratches his stubble. Henning smiles to himself.

‘Got to go,’ he says, looking at Kåre.

‘Okay. See you on Monday.’

When he steps outside, the afternoon has turned colder, more merciless. He wraps his jacket tightly around his body. He is walking towards the black gate, wondering where the nearest off-licence is, when he hears a voice.

‘Juul!’

He turns around. The voice belongs to a man Henning recognises. The sun reflects in his sunglasses. Now that Ray-Ban is close to him, he sees what Gunnar Goma saw when he peered out through his spyhole. The hair looks like it has been painted on to his skull. The pattern resembles corn circles. A thick, shiny chain dangles around his neck. He wears a black leather jacket, which undoubtedly has a flame motif on its back.

‘Do you see that car over there?’ the man says, indicating a black car outside the gate. ‘Go over to it. If you scream or try anything, we’ll kill your mum.’

He receives a persuasive nudge to his chest. Henning starts to move. He glances from side to side, looking for faces, but he sees no one he can wink or make a hidden gesture to. His pulse is throbbing in his neck. He is walking, but he can’t feel the ground.

What the hell do I do now, he thinks?

The man in the driver’s seat stares at him as Henning approaches the car. His left arm leans on the windowsill. One finger is bandaged. Gunnar Goma doesn’t miss a trick, Henning thinks, although he hasn’t picked up anything remotely camp about the men.

‘Drive,’ orders the man, who sits down next to Henning in the rear. The car accelerates. Henning is forced back into his seat. The car hums contentedly, but he is incapable of paying attention it, the people or the surroundings they pass. Again he thinks that he ought to alert someone, signal that he is being kidnapped, but what will happen to his mother then? And what’s going to happen to him?

‘We’re on our way.’

The driver is talking into a small microphone. He wears an earpiece.

What do you do when you can see no future? Henning has asked himself that question many times in the last two years, standing in the shadow, feeling it was about to swallow him up. There are no comforting words like when he was little and his mum would kiss everything better and he would know it was all going to be all right; there is nothing. Calm down, it will pass. The fear is paralysing, like frost. Floating on the gentle sea won’t help you now, Henning. The only one who can, is you.

But how? What do you do? What do you say?

They haven’t been driving for long, but before he realises where they are the car has disappeared into a car wash. It grows dark around them. The car has stopped, but nobody gets out. Behind them, the door rolls down slowly.

Henning feels a pistol in his side. He hears himself gasp.

‘Get out.’

He stares at the weapon, pressed against one of his ribs.

‘Get out, I said.’

The voice is deep. Henning opens the door and steps out on to a wet concrete floor. It smells the way it always does in a car wash. A mixture of humidity and some indeterminate detergent. But there are no other cars around. And it isn’t an automatic one, where you drive the car in yourself and the machine does all the work, apart from wash the car properly.

The door closes with a bang and the walls echo. Why didn’t I say anything about this to Bjarne, he wonders, why didn’t I say that I had unfinished business with Bad Boys Burning, that they had been to my flat and stolen my computer, that they’ve been following me? Brogeland had already mentioned it. That these guys were hardcore. Christ, even Nora warned me.

Nora, he thinks. Will I ever see you again?

A door opens. Henning sees a glass cage. A man comes out, smiling.

‘Henning,’ he says, as though he is greeting an old friend. Henning doesn’t reply. He merely looks at the smiling man.

‘I’ve many names, but everyone calls me Hassan,’ he says, holding out his hand. Henning takes it and squeezes it. Hard. Hassan’s smile reveals a gold tooth in the upper row of otherwise healthy teeth and gums. He wears a vest and has a gold chain around his neck. Henning stares at the tattoos on Hassan’s arms. There is a green frog on one and a black scorpion on the other. Frogs live on land and in water. At night, they prefer to be on dry land. They hunt invertebrates there. During the day, they hide from predators in shaded and damp places. Scorpions are mainly nocturnal. And they have a vicious sting.

Hassan strokes his beard.

‘So,’ he says, circling Henning. ‘Perhaps you know why you’re here?’

Henning gestures towards his wet clothes.

‘I don’t suppose I’m here to have a shower.’

Hassan laughs out loud. The sound sets off a hollow echo around the walls. Hassan looks at his men while he carries on moving.

‘You’ve been making things difficult for me,’ Hassan says, without looking at him. Henning stands motionless on the floor, concentrating on his breathing. He is only just holding it together; at any moment he could crumple, lose contact with the ground and collapse. His thoughts are all over the place, he tries to contain them, but he is paralysed by an overwhelming feeling of loneliness. Perhaps it’s meant to be this way, he thinks, it’s what he has coming. What he deserves. No one is on his side when push comes to shove.

Don’t show your fear, he tells himself. Don’t let them see you at your most pathetic, stripped of honour and dignity. If you’re about to die, then go out with your head held high.

The thoughts are like a kick up the backside. And that’s why he says:

‘I’ve worked it out.’

Hassan stops

‘You have?’

‘Yes, it wasn’t difficult. Yasser Shah, one of your thugs, is wanted by the police because he killed Tariq Marhoni. It’s not easy being you right now with so much heat around. Have you seen
Heat
, Hassan? Al Pacino and Robert De Niro?’